


Fulcrum

by Stormweaver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Other, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:38:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormweaver/pseuds/Stormweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark things move in London, champions are chosen.  The Game is on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Legends say that as long as the ravens hold vigil at the Tower, the Crown and therefore England will stand.  Some attribute the legend to the time of Charles II, others to Victorian fancy but it doesn’t matter when the legend originated.  The ravens remain.  Pampered as long as they behave properly; Brigantia has been at the Tower longer than any other raven.   Truth be told, Brigantia has been around longer than the Tower and much longer than London._

_Perching on top of a cautionary sign at the edge of the lawn, she contemplates the never-ending parade of tourists.  Boredom has her pecking at the sign, “Caution Ravens May Bite”.  She’s not in a good mood, the day has been dreadful.  Some woman had cooed at her in a voice reserved for small children and moronic canines, a particularly evil child had attempted to pluck one of her tail feathers and then there was the matter of the Yeoman._

_Eying the Yeoman Warders with an air of hostility, she launches herself into the air and flutters to the lawn.   The Yeomen were planning to clip the flight feathers on her left wing in order to keep her at the Tower and that simply would not do.  The oldest raven at the Tower, the one that had always been there, had plans._

 

 oOoOoOo

 

Molly Hooper is exhausted.   On the surface, it wouldn’t look like there would be much pressure associated with being a pathologist.   Things are static for the most part; the job lacks an immediacy, an urgency that other medical professionals have to face day in and day out.   The dead make no demands.

The dead may not but Scotland Yard and relatives certainly do.   Governmental cuts had removed two of her interns; she was drowning in paperwork and there was no end of it in sight. 

Shrugging out of her lab coat, she struggled into her thick wool pea coat and shuffled out of the morgue.  Fatigue dogged her steps and she shivered as she was enveloped in the cool evening air.  Tired as she was, she failed to hear the sounds of wings above her.   She scarcely noticed the impact as those same wings drove her to the ground.   The last thing she was aware of was the gleam of a raven’s eye.

Molly sat bolt upright, one hand reaching up to touch her head as the other did a random sweep over her body as if preparing to catalog injuries.   As her hands swept over her torso; she noted, to her shock, that she was lying prone on her bed.    She blinked furiously, she had no idea how she’d gotten home.  There was no sense at all that any time had passed between when she’d been struck and when she’d awoken.    Fingers flitted across her brow tentatively as she searched for signs of head trauma. 

A sound, very much like the fluttering of wings, drew her attention to the battered Queen Anne chair that served as a catch-all for clothing and books.    “My apologies,” she heard a hoarse feminine voice say, “That was my doing.”

Molly scrambled back against the headboard, fumbling for the lamp.   With a click, the room was flooded with light and the woman in the chair flinched away from it.   “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my flat?” Molly squeaked. 

Blue eyes, so pale that they almost seemed white, stared at her for a moment before the petite woman in the chair laughed.   It was a harsh bark of laughter and when those eyes focused on Molly again, there was a fierce cunning in them.   “I’m in your flat because I returned you here,” the woman said with a smile.   “I could hardly leave you lying on the pavement, could I?  As for me, that’s complicated.”

“You expect me to believe you carried me here?” 

“Carry, no.  Suffice that I brought you home, after a fashion,” her head chalked to the side, as if listening for something or someone, “I wish we had time to chat, truly I do.   There’s much about you that I like, Molly Hooper.  I’ve always had an admiration for a woman who’s willing to embrace the messy bits in life.”  She paused, glancing out the window and staring down at the street.   A small dainty hand made a casual gesture of disdain, “I require your assistance.   I suspect one of my keepers will be here soon, so I’ll be brief.”

Afterwards, Molly would say that the woman stood but the reality was she flowed from the seat and there was no visible transition between woman and raven.    For the first time in her life, Molly Hooper found herself feeling faint _.  “We’ve no time for that!”_ she heard that hoarse voice croak and there was a sharp sudden pain between her eyes.

Seated on the bed as if it was a throne and she belonged on it, the raven studied Molly for a moment, _“There are limits on what I can do and reasons for it that I have no time to go into.  Those limits force me to act through people.   Some are quite ordinary and others are extraordinary.   You are one of my people, Molly.”_

“I’m a pathologist.”

The raven nodded, pale eyes focused with pinpoint accuracy on her face, “ _Yes, as I said ‘messy bits’.”_   She stood, moved to the end of the bed, _“I can move the world with a long enough lever.   I need one simple thing of you.”_

“What is it?”

If a raven could be said to laugh, this one did as it hopped across the bed to the window, _“When he asks you for the eyeballs, say yes.”  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brigantia visits a friend.

With no one to watch him, he abandons the rigid forms that he normally adheres to. He allows himself to lean against the stonework that lines the roof as he watches the last of the day bleed into the Thames. The roof is the only thing about this flat that he likes – his access to it, the view from it. It wasn't of his choosing; he was consigned here and seemingly abandoned.  
  
His thoughts wander for a moment and his eyes close. He lets himself drift for a moment, listening to the sounds that are distinctly London. He notes the flutter of wings, ignores them as he takes a deep breath. A breath he almost strangles on when he feels the backwash of air as a bird lands on his shoulder, feels the slap of a wing against the back of his skull. His body goes rigid for a moment, his eyes snapping open as he turns slightly to gaze at the raven that is being very careful not to dig her talons into his body.  
  
"Brigantia," he hums softly. It's a confirmation, not a question and the bird rubs her head against his dark curls. She laughs at him, mantles, hopping around until she is facing backwards and glides to the roof. He makes a point of not watching her as she shifts; the thought of it makes him shiver.  
  
"You're looking better, boy," she croaks at him, stepping up to stare out at the city with him, "Your time in the gaol agreed with you this time."  
  
His lips curve almost against his will; like her, he has no love of confinement. He's well aware of all the time lost in what he called 'the box'. He's surprised to see her if not surprised by her. Countless months spent in rehab where he told himself that Brigantia, this lady in black, was a figment of too much cocaine and other substances that his brother did not approve of. "It was tolerable," he says, being very careful not to look directly at her, "despite the fact that the counselors were idiots."  
  
"No one likes their keepers, trust me on this," she says softly as her fingertips ghost along his curls. She has always seemed fascinated by his curls, the texture of them.  
  
He's quiet for a moment before he murmurs, "I'd thought you an hallucination, a myth."  
  
"And so I am," she agrees. "Soon I will be so hemmed in by tradition that I won't be able to move. Tradition and change will be my undoing and so I'm forced to be bold."  
  
Sherlock turns to watch her as she begins to pace beside him. He's met her twice before and neither time did she stay for more than a few moments. It's not the first time that he's tried to deduce her and he hopes it won't be the last. Some people lie with their eyes, some with their words and others still, with their body language. Everything about her is a lie and yet everything about her is the truth. At first glance she seems to be scarcely twenty but her eyes are worried, tired and they seem alien in the body of a youth. "Tradition is a powerful motivator. People need their legends, their history; it gives them comfort, makes them feel safe. They protect you because they love the idea of you."  
  
Hostility bursts from her; she shifts in and out of raven form, the only sign he's ever had that she's upset. " _I'm here to protect you,_ " she growls, " _not the other way around!_ ”   She straightens, her fingers picking at the stonework as she visibly steels herself.   “Still, I have freedom yet and I would use it." She steps up to him again, her fingers reaching up to ruffle his hair affectionately. "It's already started, there are cameras everywhere, people will dig through secrets best left buried and I can't go there, but you can."  
  
"You have the wrong brother," he whispers.  
  
"No," she says. "In this, I can never be wrong. Something is coming, boy, something new and it’s very wrong. Be ready for it, it'll devour you if it can." She tilts her head to study him, "You never asked me."  
  
"Asked you what?"  
  
"Three thousand years I've held my watch," she places her hands on the stonework, "and it never occurred to you, any of you." She meets his gaze. "What's so special about England?"  
  
He blinks. "What's so special about England, Brigantia? What is it about London?"  
  
She smiles, her lips brushing his forehead, "When I am caged, no longer able to leave, come visit me." As she slips off the edge of the wall, he hears her whisper, _"We all need a place to stand, Sherlock. And we all need to stand for something, even if we haven't figured out what yet."_ He hears the rustling sound of wings as they snap open and she drifts away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thank yous go to Miz Joely who is helping me get my grammar back into shape.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every story needs a hero and a villain

Black wings stretch out in the calm evening air, seeking out air currents, circling slowly downward.   A few people notice, stare at that rare sight. At one point ravens had ruled the skies until man and gunpowder had killed all but a handful. No one will shoot at her now; she’s too close to the tower, too precious a symbol.

Spiralling downward, she lands on the crenellations of the Tower and gazes down at the lawn. She knows that she must return and she hates it.   There are cages and snipped flight feathers in her future; tracking chips and minders with the best of intentions. It will be a comfortable prison but a prison nonetheless. With a sigh, she slips off the stonework, drifting down to a park bench on the green. Talons grip the wooden back of the bench and she settles for a moment. She ruffles her feathers while she looks around for the Yeoman.   There are none in the yard which is unusual; they are usually quick to retrieve one of their stray Ravens.  

That’s when she sees him, skulking near the door that leads to the kitchens. His fur is mangy, covered in the burrs from the clusters of burdock that have taken over sections of the garden.   Her talons dig into the bench, her sharp beak clicking slightly as she stares at this cur who is her oldest enemy.   She walks along the edge of the bench as he slinks towards the metal pens where the ravens of the Tower are kept and when he starts to growl, she laughs at him.

His gaze swivels to where she is perched, her talons flexing as she waits for him to decide if he attacks or flees.   To her surprise, he stands stock still and his head tilts to the side as he studies her in return.   She wonders for a moment if he’s as surprised to find her free as she is to find him in the Tower.   She notes the shift in his body mere moments before he begins to move and she launches herself off the bench. As her wings scrape furiously at the air - she can’t fight effectively from the ground - a shuffling sound draws her attention down and sees a curved wooden hook slam into the skull of her foe.   The impact of the blow stuns him, the second blow sends the cur arching in a limp roll across the verdant green grass as the Yeoman Warders spill into the area. She circles the yard, watching as her enemy shakes his head, studies the scene and flees with several of the Warders in pursuit.  

“Secure the Tower,” she hears Mycroft say. “Find out how that dog got in here and fix it, immediately.”   Yeoman scurry to do his bidding and she watches as he sits down on the bench she had vacated.   Midnight blue eyes gaze up at her as she slowly circles the yard and to her surprise, he says in a soft voice, “Lady, please, sit. They’ll be a busy for a while yet and there are things to discuss.” Cautious, curious, she sweeps down to the bench, settling on the back.   Many men would be nervous about the presence of her talons and beak so close to their head but he sits calmly.   To her surprise, he reaches into his coat, extracts a package and begins to unwrap it.   The scent of blue stilton and pears floods the area and her talons twitch. “Aunt Caroline sends her regards, Brigantia.”

Even knowing what he appears to know, knowing what his aunt could tell him, he is unprepared for the reality of her shifting. One moment there is a raven perched near his shoulder and the next, there is a woman seated next to him.   She is exactly as his aunt described; blue eyes so pale that they would bleed into the white if not for one thin line of intense dark blue, inky black locks spill over skin the colour of alabaster and stain a dress than is so intensely blue at the shoulders that it appears black much like the sheen on raven’s feathers. Deft fingers reached out, snatching pieces of pear and cheese.   If he is surprised by the look of pure bliss that crosses her face, he makes no sign of it. “I have missed these,” she murmurs.

He inclines his head, eyes scanning the yard carefully, “I’ll talk to the Yeomen, more guards in this area, we’ll keep you…”

She sighs, licking the last of the creamy cheese from her fingers and says, “You’ll keep me a prisoner and you will not stop him, Mycroft.” He startles at her use of his name and she smiles for a moment, he looks away for a moment as he hears the returning Yeoman.   Looking back, he sees the raven once more and his shoulders slump as he sets the remaining pear and cheese on the seat before her.   The raven hops forward, pecks a piece of pear loose and gobbles it down. “ _Aspire to be more. They will need you when the time comes.”_

Mycroft stares at her, offering her his arm as two Warders run towards them, “They?”

With all the grace of a reigning Queen, Brigantia steps lightly onto his extended arm, her gaze staring at the Yeomen as she raises her wings and bristles at them. “ _Priorities, Mycroft. I’ll tell you in time. I have a vested interest in seeing that you live up to your potential.”_

He watches the Yeomen as they fuss over their wayward charge and he waves them away, assuring them that he will return her to the cages that keep the ravens safe at night.   When they protest, his comments about the dog in the green send them out to search once more.   “There has always been one of us to watch, Lady. Aunt Caroline was clear on that.”

Hopping into the metal enclosure set aside for her, she studies him. “ _Your folk have been so focused on me that you’ve lost sight of what you were meant to do. The time has come for you to take up that challenge. Watching is not enough; now is the time of doing. I shall make things easier for you. I’ll stay in this cage for now, be a good bird.”_ When his brow arches up into his receding hairline, she says, _“Don’t clip my wings; there will come a time when I need to fly. And I wouldn’t say no to the occasional pear.”_


	4. Chapter 4

Today is one of those days where she looks forward to her time in the cage, when the act of having to be Raven takes far more energy than she can easily muster. It's all she can do not to scream.  
  
As time has passed she's become increasingly frustrated with humankind. There was a time, not that long ago, when humans didn't need to have everything spelled out for them. They were still firmly connected to their hindbrains – they understood that certain things were not good and some things were not wise. Don't pull the tail of a wolf. Don't try to pluck a raven's tail feather.  
  
Her head swivels as she studies the mob of tourists who allow their children to run wild across the greens of the Tower. She focuses in on the silhouette of one particularly noxious child and she clacks her beak despite her best efforts not to. She'd cheerfully bite the wretched little sod that tried to pluck her like a Christmas goose but she knows that would amount to what Mycroft calls 'bad manners' as if such a thing matters. Whilst ravens might scavenge, they aren’t above a proper feast and whatever else he might do, Mycroft has ensured that the ravens eat and eat well. Meals of minced meat, harsh bits of cheese and off vegetables have been replaced with properly prepared meals. They eat as well as the Yeomen eat, in quality if not quantity. Mycroft even saw to it that every now and then the Grand Dame as he called her received a nice juicy portion of venison. She knew without ever testing the theory that doing something 'unmannerly' would result in a return to mealy meat and a sudden stop to midnight snacks in the Green.  
  
Tempting as it is to sit in her cage all day and stare at the tourists, she's also aware that it is likely to incur the undivided attention of the Warders. Any behavior deemed ‘odd’ generally results in a 'trip to the veterinarian' and that’s something to be avoided at all costs.   If the day has one redeeming feature, the sun has emerged from the clouds and bathes the Green in warmth. Judging the pace of a pack of tourists carefully, she darts out from the cages, hopping across the Green to take flight and alight on the back of one of the more secluded wooden park benches.  

She stretches her wings as she basks in the sunlight.   Closing her eyes, she revels in the quiet and solitude of her secluded perch. It’s illusionary; she’s all too aware that there are Warders watching from various Guard Towers. Just this once, she doesn’t mind the watchers; she feels warm, content and she relaxes as the sun bakes her aches away. As the warmth of the sun soaks into her bones, she remembers; days when she was free to roam the world, days where she was with her love and she reveled in his company.   Closing her eyes, she settles in to rest and she can almost feel his presence once again, can almost hear his voice.   In her mind, she hears his voice scream. **_‘Move’_**.

Snapping her wings open, she launches herself off the bench a second before a quarrel embeds itself in the bench.   Her scream of rage blisters the Green, sending Yeoman running.   She scans the area but there’s no sign of her assailant.   She screams her rage and frustration as the Yeoman attempt to grab her, corral her into a cage. She makes a grab for the steel quarrel embedded in the bench but it’s bitten in too deep and fails.   She relaxes slightly when the Head Warder forward and if there’s any comfort to be found in this situation, she finds it in the crisp orders he dispenses.   Gracefully, as if dealing with a lady of the highest standing, he extends his leather-gloved arm to her and she hops up, bobbing at him in thanks.   She relaxes slightly when he takes them into an office and summons Mycroft. 

With efficiency that Mycroft Holmes will later applaud, the Head Warder sets about securing the site. Yeomen briskly clear the area surrounding the Queen’s House, Tower Green and Beauchamp Tower of ‘guests’.   Maintenance signs are produced at a blinding speed and people are shunted away from the area with an ease and precision that speaks of hours of training. All the while, he sits in the office with her, his hand idly stroking her head and she not entirely sure which of them is being soothed, him or her.

Less than five minutes later, Mycroft bursts into the office. He’s felt physically ill almost the entire time it’s taken him to arrive on site though he gives no outward sign of it.   He relaxes slightly, reaches out tentatively as if to touch her before retracting his hand with a sigh.   His exterior shell of calm fractures when he is shown to the park bench and sees for himself the steel bolt.   She sees a brief glimpse of his fury before it’s ruthlessly throttled down and he adjusts his tie. He nods to the Yeomen who patrol the Green, surveys the area and studies the cages where all the ravens, save Brigantia, have been placed.

Leaning down to study the bolt, Mycroft extracts his mobile from his left suit coat pocket.   Straightening, he dials and speaks quietly and calmly, then disconnects and slips the mobile back into his pocket. “Close the Tower completely, all guests out within the next ten minutes. No exceptions, call it an electrical issue.   Inform the front gate that we will be receiving one guest shortly.   Sherlock Holmes is to be admitted at once the moment he arrives and is to be brought here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness of the update, I hope you find that it was worth the wait. Chapters will be longer from here.


	5. Author's Note

This work is temporarily on hiatus. My apologies, a recent bout of real life, bad health and writer's block have me in a bind. I'm writing again but want to build up stock in chapters before I start posting again so you get reliable updates.

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are owned by the Estate of ACD, Mofatt, Gatiss and the BBC. Random bits are from the chaos that is my imagination.


End file.
